


Public Address

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 5 + 1, Angst, Episode Related, F/M, Fluff, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, do you trust me?, if you get 5 good things you're gonna get 1 angsty thing, in places, oliver v the PA system, smutty-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  A 5+1 thing centered on the new lair’s PA, arising out of conversations on how much fun this could be -- and how angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the big reveal

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: The timeline for this story is roughly during/between the first handful of episodes of S4, and I'll try to leave some markers in each chapter to place the story. We will probably go the canon divergence route in the later chapters.

 

“Oliver!”

The awe in her voice as she stands just inside the nearly complete new lair and gapes at her surroundings is a balm to his heart. Because she’s  _in awe_  of something he’s done. He’s made her say his name in thanks and praise and awe before, of course, but sexual prowess isn’t something Oliver’s felt insecure about since he was maybe fifteen.

But this... Seeing Felicity, this strong, smart, sweet woman, react with glowing approval to what he’s designed and built -– it’s a lot. It’s making his chest tighten with pride. “You like it?” he asks, because sometimes he needs the words, the reassurance in his favorite voice in the world.

Felicity knows him so well that she whirls and presses her body to his, her arms sliding around his rib cage as his palms land on her back, holding her close. “This is amazing, Oliver,” she says into the sweaty cotton of his t-shirt. 

He’d done his best to hold her off, to keep this surprise from the team  _and_  her, but he’s learned over their few blissful (and some not-so-blissful) months together that he has yet to learn how to say no to her. Plus, Felicity figured out the location of the new lair in about three seconds. He'd refused to confirm it for days, but then she'd arrived fifteen minutes ago to his soon-to-be campaign office when she was  _supposed_  to be at work, and had called and simply said, “I’m upstairs –- come show me the new lair’s security system so I can make it better.”

He  _is_  glad that the lair is nearly done, and that he’s able to show her the mostly completed vision. Because, yeah, he is pretty proud of this. And he can’t quite keep the grin off his face when he presses a kiss into her hair. “Yeah? You think the team will like it?”

“Oliver,” she admonishes, tipping her head back to look up at him. “This is–-  It’s perfect! Everyone will love it.” She goes up onto her tiptoes, her breasts pressing deliciously against his chest, and kisses him, slow and sweet.

It’s distracting him from showing her around the way he'd like to, but he’ll take Felicity’s attentions in lieu of almost anything else in the world. In fact, he’s about three seconds from suggesting they christen the space properly when Felicity pulls back to grin up at him. 

“Give me the tour?” she requests.

After a quick adjustment of his pants, Oliver takes her hand and walks her through the space, staying near the walls as he points out the training mats (”Mmm, nice padding,” she comments), the uniform cases (”Oooooh, shiny!”), the salmon ladder (”You really  _do_  love me a lot!”), and the conference table. Felicity’s only response to the table is to test its sturdiness, and then turn a speculative look his way.

So apparently they’ll be christening the table first, Oliver notes with a smirk. He's learned that Felicity is quite found of countertops and tables and desks and other conveniently tall surfaces when she's feeling frisky. 

“In a minute,” he promises, squeezing her hand in his, and then pulling her towards the empty, raised dais in the middle of the large lair. 

Felicity frowns, following him up the steps, her heels tapping that familiar beat. “Are we going to put on team plays here?” she wonders.

Oliver can’t quite stop the burst of laughter. “No,” he tells her. Then he leans in, dropping his voice into that low register that makes her shiver. “But if you want to perform for me, just say the word.”

She snorts and swats at his chest, but the quickening of her breath doesn’t escape his notice, and he puts about 10% of his mental energy into possibilities for fucking her on that conference table. He _had_ noticed the height of the table when he'd ordered it, but he doesn't think that's something he should actually admit to -- at least not until after. He adjusts his pants again.

“Seriously,” Felicity says, glancing around the circular space. “What’s this for? Wrestling matches? Boxing? I thought rings were usually square, despite that not making much  _sense_ , when you think about it,” she muses, bright pink lips pursing a bit, "since _ring_ implies _round_."

Oliver can’t resist kissing her, here in the space he’d designed for her, right at the middle of everything. “This,” he whispers against her lips, “is your command center.”

Felicity goes still in his arms, and he pulls back to meet her wide, surprised eyes. “What?”

“I didn’t buy any of the tech, since I know how much you love comparing technical specs on servers. But this space here,” Oliver turns them a bit, indicating the dais (and, if he’s being honest about it, making sure she’s facing the salmon ladder –- just to keep those  _sex in the lair_  fires burning), “this is for you. And your tech.”

“Oliver...” Her fingers dig into his sides, the way they do when she’s feeling overwhelmed, and he runs his palm down her spine, resting it just on the swell of her ass.

“You’re the center of my world,” he tells her with a little shrug. It’s sappy as hell, but it’s true. 

Her hands slide up to his shoulder blades and yank him down, and she’s kissing him like she just returned from war. It unbalances him, sometimes, the sheer passion and exuberance Felicity has for every last part of life. Including him. He’s never had this -– never had someone so happy and enthusiastically  _his_ before. Not someone wanting to be with some idealized, _different_ version of himself. Not someone wanting Ollie Queen (of the Starling Queens). 

Felicity is just  _Oliver’s_. And it’s so  _liberating_ it makes him want to commit, to marry her, to promise himself to her forever.

The ring is still at the loft, and he hasn’t been able to figure out where and how to ask her in the midst of this fight they’ve returned to. So instead of a diamond, he’s giving her this – her rightful place in the lair. 

From the feel of her in his arms, from the way she’s all but climbing him where he stands, she appreciates the gesture. Oliver’s hands slide lower, cupping her ass, moving down to her thighs to lift her–-

And she pulls away, leaving him hard and breathing hard. “Felicity?”

“I brought some tech with me!” she chirps, then turns and heads for the wall. “Power source is here, right?” she asks, not waiting for his response as she sets her bag down at the foot of the support beam. She crouches down to rifle through her bag. “And the cabling?”

Oliver pauses to appreciate her ass in those jeans until she straightens back up and motions him closer. “Felicity, what–-?”

“Hold, please?” she interrupts sweetly, handing him two small screwdrivers, a pair of pliers, some cords, and what looks like an over-sized smartphone or a small tablet. 

“What’s all this?” he asks, but she’s already slipped into her coding, hacking, and implementation headspace, which means his presence and words are not really registering with her. He shifts beside her, leaning his shoulder against the wall and just watching her as she works -– the fierce determination on her face, the occasional lip bite as she coaxes the wiring to do what she wants it to, the cocky smirk when she plugs the small tablet in and it lights up. 

But she’s not done yet –- she swipes into an application, filtering through code in a programming language that is completely indecipherable to him. Finally, she presses a button and a chime sounds loudly throughout the lair.

Oliver startles upright. “What the f–-?”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts with a grin. “That was me.” She tilts her head, reconsidering her words. “Well, not  _me_  personally, because I’m not a bell. Or an electronic approximation of a bell. But me in the sense that I made that happen.”

Oliver blinks. “Why?”

“Oh!” she answers, brightening as she melts into his personal space and snakes an arm around his back, dipping into his back pocket. He leans down to kiss her, but she steps back, holding his phone aloft. “Check it out,” she says, entering a PIN and accessing his phone.

“Hey,” Oliver protests. “How do you know my PIN?”

“I have my own PIN,” she answers distractedly, pulling up a program.

“For  _my_ phone?” he splutters. Though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at this information.

“Not just yours,” Felicity answers. “Dig’s and Thea’s and Laurel’s, too. Oh, and Lyla’s.” She pauses, gazing at the middle distance beyond his shoulder. “Barry’s. Cisco’s. Caitlin’s. I haven’t convinced Iris yet, but it’s really just a matter of time–”

“Felicity!”

Her gaze snaps back to him. “What?” she wonders, eyes wide.

He can’t quite keep the smile off of his face. “ _Why_  do you need access to...  _everyone’s_  phones?”

“To keep them secure,” she answers, as if this is the most obvious answer she could possible give. “And update them with Arrowgram–-”

“We don’t call it that,” he protests. Again. Futilely. He’d lost that battle when she designed a little arrowhead icon for the damn thing.

“-–and something like this.” Felicity lifts her eyebrows in anticipation as she activates the app on his phone and hits “CONNECT.”

“ _My name is Oliver Queen,”_ booms out through the lair and Oliver startles.

Felicity claps her free hand against the back of his phone in delight. “We have a PA system now!” she announces proudly.

Oliver assimilates that, and skips right past  _why_  to: “Where did you get that audio of me?” And then he sighs. “From practicing the announcement,” he realizes. “You recorded that?”

She nods, a sympathetic look on her face. “It needed a little work,” she tells him, her fingers sliding along his forearm. “I mean, it still does, but we’ll get there.”

Oliver gives her a glare. “Thanks.”

“Oliver, you’re going to be great!” she tells him. “With a  _little_  practice.” Her voice lowers as she glances away. “Maybe a speechwriter.”

He lets that pass, moving back to the PA system she built. “Fine. But is that,” he begins, waving a hand generally towards the air. “That audio -– can we change that?”

She nods happily. “Yes, but only to something not-boring.” He doesn’t bother to ask for clarification as she crouches down to dig her own phone out of her bag. “Like this!” she says, logging in and activating her program.

“ _This is your overlord, Felicity Smoak_ ,” rings out from the PA, and Felicity actually bounces up and down in delight. 

She’s so bright and so delighted and that’s it, he can’t keep his hands off of her. He kisses her grin, drops the screwdrivers and the extra cables into the ground, and has her pinned up against that pillar. “Love you so much,” he mumbles into her mouth.

She laughs, tilting her head back as he sucks his favorite spot on her neck. “Your benevolent overlord,” she manages, her fingers digging into his biceps, then shifting down to tug at the hem of his shirt. 

He leans back just enough to meet her smug gaze. “Does that mean you wanna be in charge this time?”

Her eyes darken, and her thighs tighten around his hips. “The conference table,” she says, panting a little as she uses the pillar as leverage to grind against him. “I want you to fuck me on the table.”

Oliver groans and shifts her back into his arms fully, turning and moving as quickly as he can towards the table.

“Oh!” Felicity stiffens in his arms, and Oliver pauses.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Question,” she begins, her gaze mischievous. “In all the work you’ve done down here…”

Oliver squeezes her ass, just because he can. “Yes?” he prompts.

She bites her lip for a moment, her head tilting a bit as she watches him. “Did you soundproof it?”

He jerks a nod and kisses her desperately, crossing the remaining distance to the table and kicking a chair out of the way. Oliver leans forward, depositing her on the surface and tilting her back until she’s lying on her back, blonde air spilling across the glass surface, and grinning up at him. “I soundproofed,” he confirms, his voice so low it’s practically a growl.

“Good,” she beams up at him. “Then I’m gonna need you to make me scream.”

He half-laughs, half-chokes even as he yanks her shirt up. “Gladly.”

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. feel the beat from the tambourine

Oliver’s training is his therapy.

The sweat, the burn, the way muscle memory takes over and his mind shuts down -- it helps him process. Helps him heal. Helps him make peace with his demons.

And it’s easy for him to get lost, to tune out everything around him. His world narrows to the rep count, the flex of his muscles, the speed of his breaths, the dull thud of contact -- with the mat, or the dummies. Silly chatter among the team, good-natured disagreements, even Felicity’s appreciative looks -- it all recedes to the edges, leaving him in almost a meditative space. 

That’s probably why the elevated voices take a while to break his concentration.

It’s the tension in Diggle’s voice when he says, “That’s not a good idea” that finally snaps Oliver back to the present.

Breathing hard, he drops the heavy medicine ball to the mat and turns, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he takes in the lair. Felicity is at her computers, fingers flying over the keyboards and seemingly oblivious to him, and to Dig and Laurel, who are facing off near the weapons cache. Oliver reads the situation quickly -- Dig has his hands on his hips, frustrated but not angry, while Laurel has her arms crossed and her chin lifted defiantly, a clear sign that she’s displeased.

Not yet a fight, but heading that way fast.

“This,” Laurel tells Dig, “is my area of expertise. It’s got nothing to do with what we do here.” 

Oliver recognizes that tone from her, has heard it repeatedly over the years. He’s pretty sure he’s never won an argument with Laurel, because she is both incredibly smart and incredibly stubborn. But their long, tortured history has left him with the unerring ability to recognize when she’s losing her patience. He moves towards them, despite being at a loss as to whatever is causing the conflict.

But Dig is already giving Laurel a look that Oliver is intimately familiar with -- Dig’s best _I can’t believe how wrong you are about this_ expression as he says, “Damien Darhk has quite a bit to do with the team, Laurel, and--”

“What?” Oliver interrupts, crossing the remaining distance to them in long strides. “What about Darhk?” Because however strong his instinct is to avoid stepping into an argument between Laurel and Dig, Darhk concerns all of them. Darhk is a problem they haven’t even _begun_ to figure out how to solve.

“Oh, come on.” Laurel turns her blazing eyes to him. “We’re not doing this. This isn’t a team matter.”

Honestly baffled, Oliver lifts a placating hand. “Doing what, exactly?” he asks, glancing quickly to Diggle. “Because Damien Darhk--”

“Is a criminal,” Laurel interrupts. “And in case you’ve forgotten, my day job is actually to put criminals behind bars.”

Oliver resists the urge to rub his face with his palms, because Laurel knows most of his tells, too, and she doesn’t tend to react well to him when he’s exasperated. And he _is_ , because-- “You can’t just put Darhk in Iron Heights and expect to forget about him,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice matter of fact. “Darhk is exactly the kind of guy that traditional justice can’t touch, Laurel.” 

She scoffs. “Sure, there are some instances where the law doesn’t deliver justice. Like--”

“Laurel--”

“--sentencing for rapists,” Laurel continues, simply raising her voice to talk over him. “If you can even get a conviction in the first place. Stalking, domestic violence, excessive force by the police -- of course there are things the law doesn’t effectively address. But a run of the mill crime lord?” She shakes her head, eyebrows raised in disbelief that they’re not agreeing with her. “Darhk is exactly the kind of guy RICO statutes were made for.”

“Run of the mill?” Diggle is already shaking his head. “Laurel, he’s much more of a threat than you’re giving him credit for. HIVE is too dangerous for the SCPD and--”

“And me?” she demands, and Oliver can tell this argument is heading into well-worn territory. He’s accepted her place on the team, however reluctantly, but she hasn’t quite forgiven him for doubting her choice. He’s still not sure what, exactly, happened among the rest of them when he’d been away -- healing from impalement, and then again when he’d tried to infiltrate the League -- but his sense is that Laurel has some resentment toward Diggle on the topic as well. She’s got her arms crossed and she’s looking back and forth between them, just daring them to disagree when she says, “I can handle it.”

“You can handle yourself on the streets,” Oliver concedes, and it’s truer now than it has ever been before, even if he still sees flaws in her fighting and in Thea’s fighting that keeps him up nights. But he’s trying like hell to do things differently, to trust his teammates, to only provide guidance when it’s asked for. So he simply says, “But that’s not what we’re talking about.”

For some reason, that seems to be the last straw for Laurel, who throws her hands up and shakes her head. “Well, I’m done talking about this.” She’s headed for the door, nearly silent in her well-worn Chucks.

“We’re not done,” Oliver calls after her, but he knows the second it leaves his mouth that it’s the wrong thing.

Whirling back around, Laurel glares at him. “You’re not in charge, so you can’t just interrupt a conversation and try to dictate what--”

“I’m not dictating anything,” Oliver protests, a flare of irritation washing over him. “I’m trying to make sure all of us agree on strategy when it comes to Darhk, because he’s not just some mob boss you can toss in jail--”

“Like a Bratva captain,” Laurel interrupts, eyes narrowed.

“Hey,” Oliver snaps, his patience suddenly and stunningly deserting him. “That’s--”

“ _DANCING QUEEN, YOUNG AND SWEET, ONLY SEVENTEEN_ ” blasts over the PA, drowning out their argument and leaving them all wide-eyed at the deafening assault of disco music.

Felicity saunters over, tablet in hand. “Are we done?” She has to shout to be heard over the music, but her irritation still comes through loud and clear.

“Felicity,” Diggle starts, one hand raised in supplication. “Can you maybe--?”

“Are we _done_?” Felicity repeats. Louder. Oliver knows she’s not about to let them slide on this, can tell from the crease in her forehead that she is well and truly angry at them all for fighting.

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “Please?” He gestures towards the recessed speakers and winces.

Felicity’s dour expression breaks for a moment, and she grins a bit. “I really like this song,” she laments, “but okay, fine.” With a swipe of her finger across the screen, ABBA cuts off, leaving them in sudden silence. “It’s so catchy,” she murmurs.

Oliver can’t help but smile at her, and she gives him her terrible attempt at a wink before turning back to Laurel and Diggle.

Laurel is the first to speak, but without the edge that she’d had before. “Felicity, I appreciate the assist.”

Felicity moves to Laurel’s side and nudges her with an elbow even as she says, “Oh, I mostly agree with Dig on this, but I also don’t think us all yelling at each other is productive.”

Oliver understands what his girlfriend is doing -- she knows that Diggle and Laurel’s relationship is much less fraught than his own with Laurel, so Felicity is trying to keep him mostly out of it. Which Oliver is fine with; he even eases back a bit, leaning a hip against the work table and crossing his arms to watch silently. His muscles are cooling down, sweat drying on his skin, and he has to fight the urge to move, to suppress his own needs until the issue is resolved.

Laurel opens her mouth to speak, but Felicity jumps in first. “I think putting Darhk in jail would be _great_ ,” she says, “but from what I’ve been researching, he’s got quite a scary organization at his fingertips. The ghosts, yes -- and you know better than me how determined _they_ are -- but also intelligence assets. I don’t think we should do anything on the legal front, _or_ ,” she adds, glancing at Dig and then to Oliver, “anything _proactive_ out on the streets until we have a better handle on what we’re facing.”

Oliver isn’t sure they’ll be able to get much more on the ghosts, or HIVE, or Darhk, but he’s more than willing to give Felicity a chance to dig if it’ll keep them all safer. “Okay,” he says with a brisk nod of approval. Then he winces, because Team Arrow is a democracy now. “I mean, I’m in favor of that approach.”

Dig’s jaw works several times in irritation, and he and Felicity have a little staring contest. She raises her eyebrows and says, “I’ve got a whole playlist. I think the Bee Gees are next.”

He rolls his eyes at her, even as he huffs a laugh. “Fine.” He looks at Laurel and nods. “I’m in favor.”

Felicity looks up at Laurel. “I don’t want to say you’re outvoted, because the team can’t dictate your actual work. But, Laurel, I _really_ don’t want to see Darhk going after the DA, or the cops, or our favorite Assistant DA. I’m really worried about poking the big bad bear without knowing just how big and just how bad he is.” Felicity frowns briefly. “Darhk. How big and bad he is. Not the bear. There’s not really a bear.”

Oliver has to press his lips together to hide his grin, because Laurel’s decision hangs in the balance, and he really wants her to willingly agree to Felicity’s points. He wants her to be safe, but he knows putting that wish into words -- from him particularly -- is a losing argument. So he stays quiet and still while Felicity takes point.

And Felicity can charm every member of the team most of the time, but Laurel hates being wrong almost as much as Oliver. He can see her struggling with her decision. 

Finally, she sighs and says, “Fine. I’ll wait.” But her arms are still crossed, tension still in her shoulders, and Oliver knows there’s more. Sure enough, she lifts her chin slightly and says, “One week,” she says. “That’s all I can agree to. If we don’t make any progress in a week, I start an investigation through the DA’s office.” She glances at Oliver, then Diggle, before lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I can’t just _do nothing_.”

On that point, she and Oliver are in violent agreement. So he pushes off of the work table and steps closer, until their little group is standing in a loose circle. “Agreed,” he says. “We take the next week for research and recon, and then we figure out a plan of attack.”

Felicity leans into him, her shoulder nudging his ribs, and grins. “As a team,” she adds proudly.

That gets a small answering smile out of Laurel, who nods once. “As a team,” she echoes. Then she hooks a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the garage. “I should go.”

Oliver snakes an arm around Felicity’s waist and pulls her closer, tilting down to press a kiss to her neck. She arches away, giving him better access, then turns to face him, hugging him with the arm that’s not holding her tablet to her chest. 

“Mmm,” Felicity hums, “what’s this for?”

“For being you,” Oliver answers, then kisses the smile on her lips. His free hand skims up her arm, cupping her head as he deepens the kiss. He knows Diggle is still there, knows they should cool it, but her fingers dig into the small of his back and he groans.

“Okay,” Diggle says loudly, “that’s about enough of that.”

Oliver breaks away from her, breathing just a little unsteadily as he meets Diggle’s gaze.

His friend is unimpressed, arms crossed and staring dolefully at them. “Look, I’m real happy the two of you finally got your damn heads out of your asses and--”

“Hey,” Felicity protests, blushing a bit as she steps away from Oliver to face Diggle, “he’s the one with the head-ass problem, not me.” Then she tilts her head. “Former head-ass problem.” She frowns. “That sounds really awful. We should use a different metaphor.”

“My point,” Diggle says, fully exasperated now, “is that as happy as I am that _you’re_ both happy now, I don’t need a demonstration.”

“Sorry, John,” Felicity answers, sounding honestly chastened.

Oliver simply shrugs. He’s not shy about his love for Felicity, or, if he’s being honest, his lust for her. “I’m not that sorry,” he says.

Diggle glares at him, then turns to Felicity. “No sex in the lair.” He waits until Felicity nods before turning back to the weapons cache. He’d clearly been cleaning the guns before his conversation with Laurel escalated, and he picks up where he left off.

Oliver is about to head back to the training mats to cool down properly when Felicity turns and lays a hand on his bicep. She steps closer and goes up onto her tiptoes, leaning her weight into him as she whispers, “That kinda sounded like a challenge.”

God damn, he loves this woman.

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. rules are made to be broken

Felicity has a rule -- no one is allowed in the server room unless she approves it _and_ she escorts whoever it is to make sure there’s no “bad touching.” So aside from the time he spent carrying server racks and servers into the small, protected space, Oliver hasn’t been in the server room. He barely even glances in the direction of the unremarkable metal door that hides it from the rest of the lair.

Which is why he yelps and startles -- in a very manly way -- when the door opens suddenly as he’s walking by. “Felicity, what--?”

She grabs him by the waist of his cargo pants and tugs him inside. The sweat on his skin from his workout cools quickly in the dry, air conditioned atmosphere of the server room, and goosebumps raise along his arms. Then Felicity is plastered against his chest, her arms wrapped around his torso, grinning up at him. “Hey,” she says.

He’s smiling back, already embracing her. “Hey. What’s this for?”

“ _This_ ,” she purrs, pressing closer, her fingers and the hard edge of her cellphone digging into his flesh, “is because you spent twenty minutes on the salmon ladder just _preening_ like some--”

“I was not _preening_ ,” he protests, genuinely offended. “It’s a core workout.”

She shrugs pressing little kisses along his jaw. “It’s a _hot_ workout and you were all shirtless--”

“You like me shirtless,” he says, and, okay, maybe he’s preening a _little_. But he’s happily addicted to her -- to the feel of her hands on him, the heat of her gaze on his skin when she watches him. He can’t get enough.

“See?” She tries to pout up at him, but can’t quite stop smiling to accomplish it. She pinches his ass instead, and he startles against her.

“Hey!” His arms tighten around her, trapping her against his body. 

Felicity smirks up at him, unconcerned. “You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re not supposed to get me all riled up when--”

“Riled up,” he huffs, amused, letting his head fall back against the wall as she sucks a mark onto his skin. He lets his hands wander lower, tracing down her spine, cupping her ass, urging her closer. How can she get him so hard so fast?

“Yes,” she says, then pauses to lick along the tendons in his neck. “ _Riled up_. So now you have to sex me up.”

“Sex you up?” He’s groaning and laughing at the same time, and how can she do this to him so effortlessly? The feelings he has for her -- the love, the lust, the affection -- he’s never felt like this; never felt so _content_. 

But also still so fucking turned on.

“It’s a rule,” Felicity says, leaning back only far enough to grab his belt buckle, but she’s still holding her phone. After fumbling with it for a moment, she tucks it into the pocket of his cargo pants and goes back to work. “A very good rule.”

“It’s a rule that I have to sex you up?” he asks, running a hand against her hair, back to the ponytail, which he tugs lightly so she turns her face up for a kiss. A kiss that catches fire, continuing until she pulls back and nips his bottom lip. Any time she looks at him _like that_ , he’ll sex her up. Cheerfully. There’s nothing better than watching her face when she comes under his tongue. “Wherever and whenever?” he prompts, his voice low and gruff.

“What?” she mutters, her gaze stuck on his lips.

“Me sexing you up,” he reminds her. 

“God, yes,” she agrees on a gasp, his pants falling to the ground around his ankles, leaving him bare. She runs her palms down his chest before tracing along his abs. 

He’s panting now, focused on her hands on his body. Faintly, some small part of his brain realizes that the everyday training sounds outside of the server room have stopped. Then her warm hand wraps around his erection and he could give a shit what the rest of the team is doing. “Good rule,” he groans.

“ _Best_ rule,” she mutters against his skin, pressing hot, wet kisses along his chest. He’s got his hands on her ass, squeezing handfuls of purple fabric and flesh. He wants to strip her, to hoist her up and sink inside her wet heat, but she has learned _just_ how to grip him, how to tease him, how to work him, and he sags back against the wall. Felicity nips at his chest. “What about Dig’s no sex in the lair rule?”

Oliver blinks his eyes open and glance down at her face, at her hand on his cock. “That’s-- God, that’s good,” he manages, clutching at her hips as she works him up. Belatedly, he realizes he hasn’t answered her question, and he adds, “This isn’t the lair.”

Felicity sounds distinctly amused when she asks, “Oh, really?”

“S’the server room,” he says, “And--”

He chokes on whatever he was going to say next when she steps back, and dips down just enough to drop a wet kiss on his cock. He needs to be inside her _right now_ , so he grabs her elbows and urges her upright, tugs her closer, pulls her hand from him with a pained hiss. 

“Oliver--”

“Off,” he orders gruffly, grabbing the material of her dress, yanking it upwards, desperate for her skin. “Take your dress off and--”

Loud approaching footsteps register even through his lustful fog, and Oliver freezes, handfuls of purple fabric in each hand, the bodice rucked up under her breasts. “Felicity?” He glances at the door, reassuring himself that it’s _locked_ , since he can’t do much, defensively speaking, with his pants around his ankles.

“Hey!” Diggle shouts from the other side of the door. “The goddamn intercom is on.”

Felicity’s eyes go very, very wide, and she squeaks, “What?”

“Yeah,” Sara chimes in, and Oliver recognizes the muted amusement in her voice, “and as much as we’re enjoying--”

“Being _traumatized_!” Thea interjects. Loudly. 

“Oh, my God,” Felicity whispers, eyes wide and unblinking. “Is this a nightmare? Am I naked right now?”

“Sadly, no,” Oliver laments quietly. The door rattles in its frame when someone smacks it hard, so apparently not quietly enough. 

“Turn that shit off,” Diggle yells, “get dressed, and get out of there.”

“You can finish first,” Sara sing-songs, and Felicity drops her face into her hands, muttering something unintelligible. Then she straightens, yanking the fabric of her dress from his grip and tugging it back into place.

Oliver is still essentially naked and a little embarrassed. And a _lot_ unsatisfied. “Felicity,” he says, as quietly as he can. “Is your phone--?”

“Oh, my God,” she says, dropping immediately to her knees. Oliver groans and looks up at the ceiling, pressing his palms flat against the wall and trying to think of something other than his massive erection and his girlfriend on her knees in front of him. Because she’s just fishing her phone out of his pants. “Got it!” she chirps, one hand landing on his thigh for leverage as she straightens back to her feet. 

Oliver thinks he may have actually whimpered.

She yells “Sorry!” into the phone, then closes the public address program. She frowns at her phone for a moment. “Why would you betray me like that?” she asks, then turns it off for good measure.

The door rattles in its frame again. “No sex in the lair,” Dig repeats. “I mean it.”

When Felicity looks up at Oliver, her sex-me-up expression has been replaced by that crinkly-forehead thing she does when she’s upset. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says. 

He glances down at his stubborn erection. “Looking for a way to make it up to me?” he asks, hoping she’ll take pity on him.

“We can’t have sex _now_ , Oliver!” Felicity answers immediately. Her voice drops to a stage whisper as she waves a hand in the general direction of the door. “They would _know_!” 

“They _already_ know,” Oliver points out, but he’s gone enough rounds with Felicity to know the battle is lost already. “They just _heard_ , actually.”

Felicity covers her face with her hands again. “Why are you _reminding_ me? Oh, no,” she yelps, and she’s lunging for the door. “They’re gonna think we’re _finishing_ if we don’t--”

But Oliver reacts quickly, barring the door with his arm. When she turns confused eyes his way, he raises his eyebrows and pointedly looks down.

“Oh. You should-- You should probably get dressed.” When he doesn’t immediately move, her voice gets a little louder. “Right now!”

Oliver stares at her another moment, then sighs, leaning down to tug his pants back on. Gingerly. He shifts uncomfortably and ends up just holding them in place, fly undone. “I’m gonna need a minute,” he tells her, and tries to think about getting shot by arrows.

Felicity presses her lips together for a moment. “I really am sorry,” she says, stepping closer so her breasts are pressed against his arm as she kisses his shoulder. 

He tilts sideways a bit and leans his forehead against hers. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting to have sex with me,” he says. Then he leans in and captures her mouth, kissing her with that same hot, desperate passion as before they were interrupted.

She leans into it at first, her arms wrapping around his bicep to hold herself in place. Then she pulls back, shaking her head as she releases him. “Oh, no, no, no, you don’t.” She yanks the door open before he can stop her, and he turns away from the door, grimacing as he zips his cargo pants. 

When he turns back to her, Felicity is meticulously straightening her dress, making sure it’s just so. Oliver steps up right behind her. “They all heard me tell you to take it off, Felicity. They’re gonna know no matter how unwrinkled your dress is.”

She flips her ponytail so it hits him straight in the face, then lifts her chin and marches out into the lair, muttering something about how smug he is.

Ten minutes later, Oliver emerges from the server room and heads straight to the salmon ladder. 

Five minutes after that, Felicity tosses his grey hoodie at him and yanks him towards the door, announcing to the others that they’re taking the night off. Diggle rolls his eyes, Thea makes gagging noises, and Sara calls out after them, "Have good sex!"

Felicity's cheeks are flushed, but she sweeps into the elevator without acknowledging their friends.

"Felicity," Oliver says, as the door slides shut. "I'm pretty sure they know." And, yes, he is goddamn smug about it.

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. drunk dialing

Somehow, Felicity always knows exactly what people in distress need. She really is remarkable that way, Oliver thinks, and she’s not afraid to instruct the people around her if she thinks it’ll help them get what they need. 

He knows some people would criticize her for her forthrightness; some people would call her a bitch and call him whipped when she takes charge. But he’s not a stupid man -- he knows she understands people and friendships and how to be there for someone with an emotional intelligence that he just doesn’t have. He’s getting better -- he’s learning how to understand his emotions, and how to more accurately recognize them in others, but she’s still the more empathetic _and_ proactive of the two of them.

Which is how he and Diggle have ended up sharing another drink and another heavy conversation in the new lair, this time commiserating over Andy’s betrayal instead of Oliver’s lingering insecurities over his relationship with Felicity. He’s still not sure how she orchestrated it, but one moment, the entire team was there and Diggle was wound way too tight, snapping and over-reacting and generally being miserable; the next, Dig and Oliver were alone, while Felicity, Thea, and Laurel disappeared for the evening. 

Oh, and the whisky bottle had been conveniently sitting on the work table beside them.

The long and rather disjointed conversation that followed began with Diggle hunched over, elbows on his thighs, staring down at the tumbler dangling from his hands, and Oliver, woefully (mis)cast as the wise friend, the dispenser of wisdom. Oliver can think tactics in three dimensions, he can strategize several steps ahead in a fight, but put him in a room with someone in need of relationship advice, and he’s fresh out of anything helpful to say. The spirit is willing, even if his emotional intelligence is weak, and Oliver has done what he can for his friend.

It seems to have helped at least a little -- Dig’s no longer casting dark glances towards the doorway in the corner; towards the holding cell Oliver had carefully built, intended for foes, not family members.

But now that they’re two hours and three glasses of whisky in, Diggle is sprawled in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle as he swirls his third (or possibly fourth?) drink. Oliver feels loose and warm and relaxed. It’s more and more common, these days, this contentement. And he knows exactly who to attribute it to. 

And then he realizes he’s sitting there smiling to himself while thinking about Felicity. Like a sap. A very happy, contented sap, but still -- a sap.

Diggle huffs a laugh, then takes a sip.

“What?” Oliver challenges, even though he has a pretty good idea what’s coming from the raised eyebrow Diggle’s giving him. The man is very expressive, and Oliver has seen this particular look for _years_ now.

“You’ve got it _so bad_ , Oliver,” Dig answers, smirking. “I always knew there was something between you, but I don’t think I could’ve seen this coming.”

Oliver doesn’t know whether to be amused or offended. “You thought I could repress my feelings forever?” he asks dryly.

Dig grins at him. “It’s cute that you think you were repressing them _ever_!”

"Hey!" Oliver protests, “I was--”

“You were emoting all over the place, man,” Diggle interrupts, “from at _least_ as far back as when Barry first came down from Central City.”

Oliver remembers that sick feeling in his gut watching Barry and Felicity flirt and blush. He knows _now_ he’d been jealous; he knows _now_ he’d already loved her, but back then? “I didn’t understand it,” he says, a little pensively. “I-- I’ve never...”

“I get it, Oliver,” Diggle answers, his tone respectful, even if there are still traces of a smirk on his face. “Believe me, I tried like hell to convince myself I wasn’t falling in love with another soldier in the middle of a war. But when it happens, it happens.”

Oliver nods slowly. Diggle has compared his relationship with Lyla to Oliver and Felicity’s before, but somehow, it surprises Oliver every time. John and Lyla have the kind of solid, unquestioned, permanent relationship that Ollie would’ve run from and Oliver _craves_. Tonight, for some reason, the words tumble out of him. “I want what you have,” he admits. “You and Lyla, Sara, a home together -- all of it. I want that with Felicity.”

Dig’s got that proud half-smile on his face when he says, “You have it already, Oliver.”

He dips his chin once, then meets Diggle’s gaze with confidence. “I’m going to marry her, John. I... I have the ring.”

For the first time, Dig looks genuinely surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He thinks about Ivy Town and those damn souffles, thinks about the non-stop nature of, well, _everything_ in Star City since they returned, and realizes he’s tired of waiting. He’s tired of _not_ being married to Felicity. His smile grows and he says it again. “Yeah. I want to marry her.”

Dig grins back, lifting his tumbler in the air. “Normally, your little Russian toast would seem inappropriate for something like this, but you’re gonna need strength to marry a strong-willed genius. So, Oliver: _prochnost_.”

Oliver gives his glass a jaunty tilt in the air. “ _Prochnost_ ,” he echoes, then takes a healthy swig. There’s warmth in his chest, but it’s not the whisky -- he’s imagining another night when Dig will be making another toast. He hopes Dig calls her a strong-willed genius then, too. His chest aches at the thought, but it’s a good ache -- hope and impatience.

Diggle studies him, absently swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I feel like you might need help with this, Oliver.”

“What?” Oliver furrows his brows. “Why?

“Because you’re liable to do something cliched like hide the ring in a glass of champagne, or in the whipped cream on top of a piece of cake.”

Oliver sets his jaw.

“Oh, God,” Diggle groans. “You’re already planning to--”

“They were _homemade_ souffles, Dig, it’s not like I asked a waiter to--”

But Diggle is laughing, one hand clenched over his midsection. Every time Oliver tries to interrupt, to defend himself, Diggle just laughs harder. 

“It’s not funny,” Oliver insists. Felicity would call it pouting, but she’s not here at the moment, so Oliver thinks of himself as being indignant.

Finally, Diggle calms, seemingly unconcerned by Oliver’s glare. “Oh, man, you rich people can be so damn Hollywood sometimes,” he says. “Everything has to be a perfectly lit production.”

“It’s kind of an important moment,” Oliver points out, exasperated. What’s wrong with wanting it to be perfect?

“Of course it’s _important_ , Oliver, but it should be important to _you and Felicity_ , not just something you’ve seen in a dozen rom-coms some ex-girlfriend forced you to watch. Pick something that has meaning for your relationship and use that as a guide.”

Oliver considers that. “What, like propose in my leathers?” he scoffs. “Dig, that’s--”

“ _This is your overlord, Felicity Smoak_ ,” announces the PA, and they both freeze. Oliver doesn’t even breathe, waiting for some indication of why Felicity is using her public address app instead of just calling him.

And then the lair is filled with the sound of Felicity giggling.

Relaxing, Oliver grins at the speaker. “Felicity? Honey?”

“Oliver!” she says, and then starts laughing again, soft and warm and, God, he has the most intense craving to hold her. Right now. He can tell just from her laugh that she’s had probably three glasses of wine, which means she’s bright and flushed and happy. Felicity at this stage of tipsiness is an armful of sunshine.

“Everything okay, Felicity?” he asks, and even he can hear the dopey, lovesick tone of his voice. Not much he can do about it.

“I missed you!” she sing-songs.

Dig chuckles and takes a sip of his drink.

Oliver turns back to the speaker, wishing she were here and not just talking to them through the PA. “Sounds like you’re enjoying some wine,” he notes.

“I am!” she agrees cheerfully. “I was. Thea left,” she adds, sounding crestfallen.

“Left?” Oliver echoes, concerned. “Felicity, where are you?”

“At home,” she answers promptly, then she starts to laugh again, her giggles interspersed with something that sounds like it’s supposed to be his name.

“Felicity?” he presses, but her amusement is so infectious that he finds himself nearly laughing along.

“Oliver!” she manages between gales of laughter, “we _live_ together!” 

Diggle brings a hand to his face, trying to muffle his laughter. 

“Yes, we do,” Oliver agrees, and he’s really not hurt that she finds living with him _hilarious_. Probably not hurt. 

She’s still laughing and talking at the same time. “Growly Mister Pointy-Face--”

“ _Pointy_ -face?” Dig echoes quietly.

“--shoots arrows but then makes me breakfast and gives me orgasms!” Felicity continues, giggling sporadically.

“Oh, God,” Diggle groans. “Not this again.” He’s not laughing anymore; in fact, he looks pained. Oliver can’t help but remember the lingering awkwardness after Dig (and Sara and Thea) overheard their attempts at server room sex.

“Uh, Felicity,” Oliver cuts in, hoping to derail her train of thought. “Dig’s here.”

“Oh.” Felicity sounds sad, but her voice brightens when she says, “Hi, John!”

“Hi, Felicity,” Diggle answers. 

“John, I’m really sorry,” she says, and her sibilants are a little slurred around the edges. 

Still, Oliver gets that feeling -- that sudden certainty that something bad is about to happen. “Felicity, what--?”

“Sorry,” she continues, “we broke your sex rule.”

Slowly, Diggle turns a murderous expression towards Oliver. “Excuse me?”

“Oh!” Felicity chirps. “ _No_ sex rule. Tha’s it. Th’ thing we broke. A couple times, I think? Oliver, how many--?”

“Felicity!” he says. Loudly. “I’m on my way. Can you drink some water for me?”

“Of course, I can drink water,” she answers defensively, “I’m very good at swallowing.”

There’s really no way to make Dig hear it any differently, so Oliver just avoids his friend’s eyes and says, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Felicity. Now hang up.”

“Love you,” she says, and before he can say it back, the PA beeps, signalling a lost connection. 

Oliver clears his throat in the sudden silence. “Listen--”

“Don’t even try it,” Dig interrupts. “Or do you want me to bring Lyla down here and look for flat surfaces--”

“Okay, okay,” Oliver interrupts, wincing at the thought. “I get it. Really, I do.” He chances a quick glance at Dig, who’s still glowering. “It was mostly when we were setting up the lair and--”

“Does this look like the face of a man who wants _details_ about the sex you’ve had with the woman he considers a sister?” Dig thunders.

Oliver shrugs. “I just meant--”

“Nope,” Dig interrupts. “This conversation is over and _I pray to God_ we don’t have to have it _again_ , Oliver.”

Oliver still struggles reading emotions, but he is an excellent evaluator of threat levels and recognizes this gift immediately -- If he leaves now, Diggle will let the matter drop. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Oliver gives Dig a brief nod. “Have a good night, John.”

Diggle merely grunts in reply, rising up and wandering toward the not-so-secret hiding place for the whisky.

Oliver makes it all the way to the elevator door before Diggle speaks. “Oliver?”

He stops, turning back to face his friend. “Yeah?”

Diggle’s got his arms crossed, and he looks off into the middle distance for a moment, then says. “Thanks. For tonight.”

Oliver grins. “Any time, John.”

“I appreciate that,” Dig answers. Before Oliver can turn away, Dig lifts something about the size of a kleenex box and starts walking towards him. “Oh, and Oliver?” 

“Yeah?” Reflexively, Oliver catches the item when Diggle hucks it in his direction. Eyebrows up in surprise, he glances down to find himself holding a package of Clorox pre-moistened cleaning wipes.

Dig brushes past, patting Oliver a little roughly on the shoulder before he steps into the waiting elevator. “This place better smell like a damn disinfectant factory tomorrow when I get here.”

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. 42 is the answer to a question he never wanted to ask

Oliver is more than a little frustrated when he kicks Alex out of the campaign office around 8 p.m. 

He checks his phone to make sure he hasn’t missed any calls from Felicity, who, last he’d heard, was still working through something complicated with Curtis. No messages, no missed calls. He shouldn’t be disappointed, because subjecting her to his bad moods isn’t fair, but he can’t deny that her simple presence tends to melt away some of his tension.

But she’s busy, so he’s on his own with his frustration. Oliver stalks to the hidden elevator and descends to the new lair, intent on working off the tension with a workout. 

As much as Oliver knows he can do a lot of good as mayor, the strategy of _getting_ there frustrates him. He’s running unopposed, but winning like that -- by default, because no one else even bothered, then skating by -- that’s not what he wants. He wants to do real good, usher in real change. And to do that, he needs an actual mandate -- he needs support.

But that Ollie Queen, privileged fuckup reputation, it follows him around, day after day. He sees it when he talks to citizens, hears it in the tone of reporters’ questions, reads it in editorials lamenting Starlingers’ lack of _other options_. Oliver wants to be given the opportunity to prove people wrong, to prove he can do this. But politics is such a superficial pursuit in so many ways, and Oliver refuses to play the game -- specifically, he refuses to encourage articles that focus on his relationship with Felicity in order to rehabilitate his image. Her achievements are _hers_ , due solely to her intellect and abilities.

Alex’s instinct to shine some of Felicity’s bright, warm light onto Oliver is understandable -- of everyone Oliver is close to, Felicity is the most immediately trustworthy. And her trust and belief in him could be a way for the more skeptical Starlingers to accept that maybe, _just maybe_ , Oliver Queen is not the selfish fuckup he used to be.

Except that using his girlfriend’s achievements to make himself look better, to get what _he_ wants? That’s something the selfish fuckup he used to be would do.

Trying to explain that to Alex -- it hadn’t gone well.

When Oliver emerges from the elevator, Dig and Thea look up with slightly guilty expressions from the remnants of the aromatic Big Belly dinner they’d clearly just shared. Oliver’s stomach grumbles, and he regrets, again, refusing Alex’s offer to grab Indian from the place down the street.

Thea wrinkles her nose. “You’re not hungry, are you? I thought you had a dinner meeting.”

“I’ll survive,” Oliver replies, touching her shoulder briefly on the way past. He heads straight for the changing room in the back, stripping out of the button-down shirt and slacks he’s wearing, giving only a passing thought to where his suit jacket and tie may have ended up. He’ll end up leaving them in his office, and Felicity will give him her amused-but-also-exasperated face when he inevitably can’t find the tie he wants because he sheds them all over the city.

He re-emerges in the comfortingly worn grey cargo pants and moves to the mats, warming up with fifty pushups before flipping over to run through five quick sets of sit ups. He often uses barbells, resistance bands, and other implements, but today, he wants the ache and burn of bodyweight exercises. So he moves to the salmon ladder and works it up two rungs, then starts pullups.

The familiar burn in his muscles has supplanted most of his remaining irritation when he drops back down to the floor. He can hear Dig and Thea sparring with escrima sticks and briefly considers joining them, but his temper is still a little too hot. Besides, Diggle is a better teacher than he is, particularly for someone who’s working on self-control.

Oliver is in plank position, mid-burpee, when the PA system blares to life. He flinches, his gaze going to the nearest speaker -- given that most of the team is in the lair already, it’s either Felicity or Laurel. He waits in suspense for the preprogrammed announcement to play. _Think of them as personalized ring tones_ , Felicity had explained with a huge grin. _So whoever’s down here will always know who’s calling before they even speak_.

Oliver is pretty sure Felicity designed the program that way just so she can remind them all who’s _actually_ in charge every time she calls in. The anticipation of hearing her voice warms his chest.

“ _This is your overlord, Felicity Smoak_ ” rings out and Oliver actually smiles during the millisecond the public address program takes to switch from the audio file to the live connection with her phone.

Then he hears harsh breathing, the sounds of a struggle, and Felicity’s voice, high-pitched with panic. “Oliver! Three ghosts are-- _Ow_!” she yells. 

Oliver is on his feet and moving towards the raised dais where the entire operation’s nerve system is; where _she_ should be. Pulse pounding in his chest, he half-shouts, “Felicity?”

“Don’t know how they got in the building,” she continues, so fucking brave even though he can hear the tears in her voice. Then she’s screaming in pain, and Oliver is pretty sure he’s about to vomit on his shoes, standing stock still at the foot of the stairs leading up to the computer dais. He can’t move, can’t breathe -- can only see a thousand horrifying images of Felicity being hurt, a thousand horrifying _injuries_ on her beautiful body.

Diggle and Thea move past him, each of them touching him briefly in comfort or encouragement, before they start working frantically at Felicity’s computers. Oliver is focused entirely on the sounds of a struggle -- the dull, sickening thud of hard contact, the gasps and yelps and groans. 

The sounds of the woman he loves fighting for her life.

“Felicity?” he yells, jolting out of his paralysis. Because someone is hurting her, and he is going to make it stop. And then he is going to make sure that person dies slowly. “ _Felicity_?”

There’s a pained grunt, and then a low voice, probably a man’s voice, huffs out, “Stupid bitch.”

Oliver is practically vibrating with indecision, torn between staying to hear more, to help her in any way he can, or _running_ to Palmer Tech. But he knows with a sick certainty that the 15 minutes it’ll take to get there -- 10 or fewer if he speeds, and he will speed -- will take too long. He knows -- _knows_ \-- that he’s going to be too late to intervene.

Because Felicity is smart and strong and brave, and she can defend herself in short bursts against an average attacker. But against three ghosts? Three brutal, single-minded fighters? 

Oliver’s gut churns and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees bright spots.

He has to try. She’s always expected him to try, and he can’t choose this moment to let her down. And, abruptly, he’s moving in straight lines towards the Ducati, parkouring over furniture in his way. _Felicity needs me_.

She’s whimpering now, but still has enough fire in her to shout, “Misogynistic asshole. _Oliver_ , I love--”

There’s a loud thud, and she goes quiet. A rustling sound comes across the line, some heavy breathing, but that’s all. Nothing to let him know that she’s-- That she’s still--

“ _Felicity_!” Oliver sprints the last few yards to the Ducati, not bothering with a shirt, not bothering with _anything_ other than his need to _get to her_ , to save her. He jumps on, and is just about the fire up the engine when the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rings out over the PA. 

Oliver freezes, eyes wide, and turns to look back at his sister. She’s got one hand over her mouth, shaking her head in denial. 

He’s hot and cold all over, adrenaline ripping through his body, trembling with rage and gut-wrenching terror. This can’t be happening. He _can’t_ have just heard Felicity be killed over the PA. He _can’t_. He _refuses_ to believe that could be true. 

She _can’t_ be dead. She _can’t_.

He shakes himself out of it and shouts, “Thea, _where_?” 

Diggle is moving past, a blur of furious energy, throwing himself in the van to accompany Oliver. To save their partner. 

Thea leans over, eyes scanning the monitors as she works. “Her phone’s at Palmer Tech.” Thea shouts. “In her office. _Go_!”

It takes Oliver 8 minutes to reach Palmer Tech. 

Eight of the longest minutes of his entire life, and then he has to wait for a fucking _elevator_ because no matter how good his cardiovascular health is, the elevator is faster than sprinting up 40 flights of stairs.

The soft, soothing music playing for the entirety of his ride up 40 flights makes him want to tear his skin off. 

Oliver all but dives out of the elevator on her floor, running for her office. “Felicity!” he hollers. “ _Felicity_?”

One section of the glass wall is shattered, and he finds Curtis lying among shining bits of broken glass. “Curtis?” Oliver scans him quickly -- conscious, bleeding -- and continues to move into the room, evaluating for threats, searching for _her_.

Two visitor chairs are overturned, and -- his heart seizes up -- one black heel lies on the floor near her abandoned phone. 

No Felicity. 

She’s--

“Curtis, talk to me,” Oliver orders, not caring that he’s probably blowing his cover. Not caring that he sounds like the Arrow, that he’s moving like the Arrow, because-- “ _Where is Felicity_?”

“They--” Curtis stops, coughing wetly. His eyes are wide, his face drawn and pinched with pain. “They took her, Oliver.”

Oliver freezes. “No,” he whispers.

Diggle barrels into the room. “Oliver?”

But he can’t answer. He has no answers. 

Slowly, he moves toward her phone -- her phone with trackable GPS, her phone which is supposed to be a way for him to find her if anything _like this_ ever happens. His bad knee protests when he squats down, reaching for the phone in the bright purple case with one shaking hand. The screen is dark, but when he brings it to his ear to find out if it’s still connected to the lair’s PA system, he says his sister’s name and she answers immediately.

“Ollie? What happened? The police -- they’re on the way.”

“She’s--” Oliver’s voice is wrecked, and he has to stop and clear his throat. “She’s gone. Darhk -- the ghosts took her.”

Diggle’s sharp inhale draws Oliver’s attention, and he glances over to see Dig working on Curtis, who’s been shot in the chest. Non-fatal wound, Oliver determines with a bland sort of detachment, but probably got his lung.

Thea is talking, asking him questions, but her voice recedes into the blur of _everything else_. Everything that’s not the woman he loves. Oliver drops to a seated position from his crouch, keeping himself from falling prone only by bracing one palm on the cool marble floor. And then he retreats into himself. He should be thinking over strategies and search options and every possible resource he can use to get Felicity back.

But he’s staring at her shoe, remembering that she’d hopped a little on one heeled foot this morning, before grabbing his forearm for balance as she slipped on the second heel. 

Remembering that she’d turned her face up to his for a quick kiss, promising more later, because she was going to be late for the daily stand up meeting with her executive team. 

Remember that she’d tossed a beaming smile over her shoulder before closing the door behind her when she left.

Oliver doesn’t know it as he sits there on the floor of her office at Palmer Tech, staring at the scuff marks on the bottom of her abandoned black heel, but that’s the last time he’ll see Felicity for 42 days.

-30-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, we are diverging here from canon, taking the Something Terrible Befalls Felicity at the Winter Finale road less traveled -- she's kidnapped, not (only?) injured.


	6. stages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the end of this little ride. Thanks so much for reading! :)

_denial_

The first week, Oliver doesn’t sleep. 

He occasionally passes out from sheer exhaustion, but that’s all the rest he’ll allow himself while she’s out there _somewhere_. He’s in the lair constantly, with the shortest, most short-tempered breaks for food. Or to talk to people -- Alex (who has tried repeatedly to get Oliver to speak to the press; Oliver refuses); Lance (who, to his credit, has brought the full force of the SCPD into the search, not that it’s doing any good -- Darhk has essentially disappeared); and Donna (who Oliver expected would be a mess; instead, she has plastered “MISSING” posters over every surface of Star City --he should’ve known not to underestimate Smoak women).

Oliver looks for Felicity. Every waking moment. On the computers, on the streets. He can’t rest, he can’t stop -- not while _she’s not here_. 

Oliver doesn’t eat that first week, either, not until John basically strong-arms Oliver into dinner at his apartment. Thea joins them, taking a bit of time to cuddle Sara. When Oliver’s attention catches on his sister’s warm smile, Oliver feels himself relax for just a moment, feels himself _enjoy_ the sight of his sister and Sara -- and then he sucks in a harsh breath, because how can he let himself _enjoy_ anything without her?

He’s halfway to the door when John’s hand lands on his shoulder. Oliver tenses even further, standing rigidly but refusing to turn when Dig speaks. “Oliver, please. You need to eat. We all need to be strong enough to go get her when we find her, okay?”

“Dig,” he starts, but Dig’s grip on his shoulder tightens.

“Oliver, you’re gonna have to eat at some point. Might as well be now. Might as well be here.”

Only the fact that Dig had put him on his ass _three times_ when they sparred earlier in the day has Oliver agreeing. “Fine,” he grits, following Dig back to the the others, ignoring Lyla’s carefully blank expression and the concern practically radiating off of Thea. Oliver’s mind is a world away, conjuring up horrible images, remembering all the things he was subjected to and wondering if Darhk has turned any of those techniques on Felicity.

He’s nauseated when he takes his seat at the table. He tries to distract himself from the vivid imagery of horror scrolling through his mind by going over the timeline again. When the security cameras at Palmer Tech went down; when the security guards were killed; when the elevator arrived on Felicity’s floor; when she called the lair; when Curtis says she was dragged away -- Oliver goes over and over the facts until they’re worn and smooth like river rocks. 

Lyla cooked something hearty and Italian that tastes pretty good; Oliver can barely choke down a few bites, thinking of blown up restaurants and wasted chances and _where is she?_

When Lyla lifts her wine glass slightly, the cut glass catches the light and Oliver’s attention. He’s jerked from the non-stop churn of _what happened to Felicity_ , suddenly is _here_ in the room with them. He is fully present and inexplicably suspicious. He looks around -- at Thea’s downturned mouth as she tilts her glass in answer, at John’s stoic nod as he clinks his glass against Lyla’s.

Oliver realizes they’re toasting _Felicity_.

He jerks to his feet, the chair rattling along the hardwood floor as three startled faces turn to him. But Oliver is furious. “This isn’t a _wake_ ,” he grits out, hands fisted by his sides to quell the urge to flip the goddamn table. “She’s not dead.”

“Oliver, we know--” They talk over each other. “It’s not what you--”

But Oliver has already slammed the door behind him, nearly sprinting to the emergency stairwell to burn off some of this sudden rage. He knows they each love Felicity and want her back. He knows they haven’t _really_ given up on her, but no one in the entire world loves her the way he does.

No one misses her with the fiery pain he does.

No one needs her back, needs her safe, needs her unharmed and whole and beautiful and healthy -- no one needs that more than he does, except Felicity herself.

As he bursts out onto the street, chest heaving with exertion, he can’t imagine making it through one more day without her.

 

_anger_

The second week is eerily quiet. Infuriatingly quiet.

The SCPD’s efforts have started to fade out. Oliver knows they won’t say it to his face, but the SCPD is expecting to find Felicity’s _body_. The very thought leaves Oliver shaking with anger.

 _Everything_ leaves him that way -- there are vast reserves of _rage_ in his chest, increasing in volume with every day that passes.

The team is beginning to get disheartened, though they hit the streets with a grim sort of determination regardless of the way their hopes are flagging. 

How can they doubt her? How _dare_ they give up on her? He grits his teeth when Thea sighs, and when Diggle can’t quite hide his mounting grief. Oliver nearly punches Roy -- not for showing up to help, but for saying he’d _loved_ her, too. “Past tense?” Oliver roars. “She’s not dead.”

Somewhere buried underneath his own seething anger, Oliver can empathize -- they love Felicity, too. They miss her, too. _Of course_ her continued absence affects them. _Of course_ they’re sad. 

But he can’t focus on that, because he’s _furious_. He’s drowning in the liquid heat of his rage, and it’s almost exclusively aimed at himself for _not finding her_. Oliver has hated himself before, for a variety of valid reasons, but his inability to protect Felicity, to save her, is quickly overwhelming him. 

He’s too full of rage to realize he’s taking it out on everyone else.

On Barry, for not getting his ass here fast enough that first night to make any difference.

On Diggle, for that fucking dinner.

On Cisco, for not find any goddamn trace of Darhk or Felicity in all of his searches.

No one will spar with him, and Oliver goes through five training dummies in four days.

Nothing helps.

 _Nothing_ could possibly help but her.

 

_bargaining_

The third week is full of burning, dry eyes, and a constant buzzing headache resulting from Oliver’s inability to sleep. He can’t turn his brain off, can’t answer a single one of these fucking questions that have been driving him insane.

Are they feeding her enough? Keeping her hydrated?

Does she have somewhere soft to sleep? Does she have fresh clothes, a toilet, a _sink_?

Have they hurt her? Have they provided her with any basic care if she’s injured?

Is she okay? _Will_ she be okay?

The unanswered questions haunt him.

Oliver and the others have searched most of the city, peering in windows of occupied houses; breaking into empty buildings. They never find a fucking thing.

It plagues him, the _not knowing_. And as the days tick by, he’s forced to consider the niggling possibility that he’ll never see her again. He cannot abide the idea that she could be dead, but it has occurred to him more than once that she may be _gone_ for good. There’s a chance that she’s alive, that she’ll live the rest of her life without ever coming home. 

The thought churns in his gut.

He needs her so fucking desperately, but she’s always been stronger. So he tries to convince himself that _any_ outcome where she lives is okay. His feelings, his inability to live without her means not a single goddamn thing. He’ll take prison, captivity, daily torture; he’ll take enforced isolation, he’ll take watching her laugh with another man -- he’ll make himself be okay with _anything_ as long as she lives.

As long as she’s happy.

She’s the strong one -- so maybe that’s what it’ll take to get her home. Maybe releasing any hold Oliver may have on her, on her heart, on the rest of her life -- maybe that will persuade Darhk to release her. Maybe she can be happy without him. 

He’ll endure it, if that’s what it takes to bring her home.

He thinks about what his life would look like without her -- year after year of loneliness and heartbreak and so much regret. 

Finally, Oliver cries.

 

_depression_

The fourth week, Oliver is ashamed to admit, passes in something of an alcoholic haze.

He has not stopped looking.

He has not lost hope that Felicity is alive -- in fact, he knows Darhk is the flashy kind of evil who would make sure to put her lifeless body on display if he killed her. Which is why with every unknown caller, every breaking news bulletin he sees, every time Lance shows up to talk to him, Oliver braces himself for the spectacle that will effectively end his life, too.

The fact that it hasn’t happened yet can only mean that she’s still alive. She’s still leverage over him.

Oliver believes she is alive; _knows_ she is alive. (He believes with every last fiber of his being that he would _know_ if she’d died; he would _feel_ the moment his hope was extinguished along with her.) What he cannot handle is knowing he has done _absolutely nothing_ of value to find her and bring her home.

Every lead fizzles.

Every person with ties to Darhk has no idea where he’s gone.

Every ghost they manage to find kills him- or herself before giving up any information.

Every warehouse they search based on logic and possibility holds only dust and emptiness.

And every night he buys a bottle of whisky and drinks it until he passes out. It’s not really sleeping, but at least the liquor dampens his nightmares. 

Sometimes.

 

_acceptance_

The fifth week, Oliver makes himself go to the loft. _Their_ loft. 

Weeks earlier, he’d sent Thea to the loft for clothes and toiletries, because he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing reminders of her. He already tortures himself enough with the memory of her -- the smooth softness of her skin beneath his fingers; the bright scent of her perfume; the cadence of her babbling. Every single time he closes his eyes, he sees her smile as she left that last morning.

He didn’t think he could handle the crushing weight of those memories in the home they’d been creating together.

But now he’s holding onto his ability to function without Felicity, onto sanity by his goddamn fingernails, and he needs... _something_. He needs to surround himself with everything he loves about her to keep himself from faltering. He needs to keep it together because _she_ needs him to find her.

As soon as he walks into the loft, he realizes his error.

Felicity is _everywhere_ \-- three pairs of shoes discarded near the bottom of the stairwell, a bright purple coat hanging on the coat rack beside the door, her favorite oversized coffee mug on the small dish rack in the kitchen.

His chest aches.

He sees a hundred images of her here as he looks around -- smiling over her shoulder at him from the balcony; curled up on the couch reading with an adorable look of intensity on her face; her teary eyes watching him warily from the other side of the long table when she’d pushed him away, however briefly.

He’s frozen by the door, unable to move farther into their home, but not ready to leave.

Just the thought of going upstairs to their bedroom leaves him breathless.

Because these memories of her? These vivid recollections of how happy they’d been, of how seamlessly they’d become the most important part of each other’s lives? Being here in their home, Oliver realizes those memories may be all he’ll ever have of her.

 

_signs_

The sixth week ends as it begun -- with the team in the lair, grimly reconvening after another fruitless night of searching. 

This is Oliver’s life without her: a long, repetitive, disappointing slog through the barest hints of information. Failure after failure. 

Dig and Thea try to keep his spirits up, but he can see the strain in their faces. Despite how lost he feels, Oliver appreciates the effort. He’s not sure he can handle their kindness, though, so he tells them gruffly to go home.

Thea is pulling on her jacket, and Dig is halfway to the black van parked at the edge of the lair when it happens. 

Out of nowhere, there’s a slight buzz in the air, the low static-y hum of an open telephone line. Oliver looks around, on full alert. Because it sounds like it’s coming from the public address system, but no introductory audio file played. Other than the Team Arrow members with the Felicity-created app on their phones, Oliver only knows how to operate the PA system from within the lair. From Felicity’s work station, more specifically. 

And just like that, hope blooms hard and fast in his chest. _Who else could make her PA program work from wherever the fuck she is?_

The buzz recedes.

Oliver wilts, just a little bit -- because what if that’s it? What if _contact_ is all she can manage, and it’s up to them to do the rest? “John?” he yells, sprinting towards her computers, “can we trace--?”

Hum. Silence. Hum. Silence. Hum. 

Silence.

Hummmmmm. Hummmmmm. Hummmmmm.

“Oliver,” Dig sounds excited. “It’s code.”

Hum. Hum. Hum.

“It’s S.O.S.,” Oliver realizes. Three short, three long, three short. He doesn’t know much Morse code, but he knows _that_. She’s sending them a fucking _S.O.S._ signal. “Felicity? Felicity, can you hear me?”

There’s a silence, and then more -- more carefully spaced hums. 

Hum. Hum. Hummmmmm. Hum.

“F,” Dig says. “Short-short-long-short -- that’s _F_.” He’s shocked, a disbelieving smile on his face. “It’s her, Oliver. It has to be.”

Oliver’s breathing like he just ran a six minute mile, his heart pounding in his chest. He and Thea and John stand in a small circle up by her monitors; Thea has her phone out in her hand, recording the sounds, while Dig is scribbling letters onto a piece of paper.

Oliver is trembling, unable to process the whirling mass of emotions. She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive. And contacting them, because she’s the smartest, bravest person he’s ever met, and _Felicity is alive_. Thea takes his hand, and he clings to her, eyes on the speaker, listening to the purposeful hums. He tries to dredge up any other Morse code he may have learned, but back on the island, S.O.S. had been the only message he’d ever wanted to send.

“Oliver!” Dig calls out, and from the exasperated tone of his voice, Oliver must have spaced out, so lost in his shock and hope and suffocating _fear_ that he’ll manage to fuck this all up.

“Yeah?” he says, still half-focused on the faint static-y hum that means _Felicity is alive_. “What-- Where is she?”

Dig’s expression is admittedly bewildered when he holds up the pad of paper. There’s a sequence of dashes and dots on the top half, separated by light vertical lines to separate letters. Below the Morse code, Dig had scrawled _SOS. F UNDERBAYHOUSE_. 

“Underbay house?” Oliver frowns, staring at the message. “What is--? Are you sure?”

“She’s repeating it,” Thea says, her eyes tracking the series of dots and dashes across the top half of Dig’s notes. “It’s the same message again.” She glances up at Oliver with a puzzled look. “I’ve never heard of any family or estate called Underbay around here, though.” She tilts her head, gaze slipping up to the ceiling as she thinks. “Underbay,” she repeats.

Then Oliver feels that skittery dread crawl up his spine. “The bay,” he says, his voice low and uncertain. “Darhk didn’t want any attention on the bay, remember? Could she mean a house that’s...?”

Diggle frowns at him. “A house _under_ the bay? Oliver--”

“Get Lyla on the phone,” Oliver orders, turning to Felicity’s computers. “We need satellite imagery. Topography, heat signatures -- _something_.” He raises his voice. “We’re coming for you, Felicity. I swear to God, we will get you out of there.”

The message repeats for nearly an hour, before cutting off abruptly, in the middle of the word “under.” Oliver freezes, staring up at the PA speakers as if they could possibly tell him whether she’s okay. The sudden silence is chilling -- because the cadence of her message? It’d varied; the length of time between long and short hums had grown shorter and shorter, meaning that _hadn’t_ been a recording on a loop. Oliver knows that whoever was signaling them -- _Felicity_ \-- had been on the other end of the line, trying like hell to make it back to them. 

It’s the closest he’s been to her in _forty-two days_.

His chest tightens and he turns away from the team, for just a moment, one trembling hand lifting to wipe across his face. He can’t let himself think about what could’ve happened to make her sever the connection.

By unspoken agreement, the team speeds up analysis of the images and information Lyla’d sent along. Laurel joins them, and Barry runs in just before Oliver declares their plan, “Good enough.”

They don’t know much for sure -- they’re making some pretty big assumptions based on her message and the strangely regular shapes identified by the ARGUS satellite-mapped topography they’d _borrowed_. Nature doesn’t often form perfectly flat, perfectly square areas, and there are at least three of them along the rocky edges of the bay, big enough to be entrances to something below. And this makes a certain sick kind of sense -- Darhk and Felicity have _not_ been anywhere in Starling, but they might’ve been _under_ the city. Or the bay.

The team pauses very briefly at the door, and Oliver feels like he should give a rallying speech, but all he has is: “No matter what, my number one priority is getting Felicity out safely.” 

Dig grimaces. “Oliver...”

Oliver stares resolutely back at his partner. He will not change his mind. He will not apologize. If it comes to it, he will lay down his life to make sure she’s safe. He doesn’t _want_ to die; he has no semi-suicidal self-sacrificing intentions here. In fact, he wants _badly_ to live with her, to grow old with her -- he wants that so badly he can taste it. But her life is more important than his. “Get Felicity out.”

No one argues, and they make their way to the bay. Now that they know what they’re looking for, it’s not that hard to find the hidden entrance disguised among the rocks, accessible only at low tide. 

Of fucking _course_ the tide is rolling in, which makes a quick infiltration and extraction even _more_ important. They need to move quickly for the element of surprise because they’re going in blind, but now they’re working on a clock to get back out _at all_. They can’t get trapped down there; they can’t let it flood before they get Felicity out.

Dig gives Oliver a terse nod, then blows the hatch. They clamber down the stairs as fast as they can go, Barry a red streak disappearing almost immediately. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, there’s...

“What the fuck?” Thea mutters.

They’re standing at the edge of a _cornfield_? Oliver looks up and sees row after row of UV lights suspended from a cement ceiling painted a pale blue. It’s surreal, and for a long, strange moment, Oliver is completely convinced that this is some kind of nightmare.

“There’s a house,” Barry says over the comms. “Far side of the-- the _corn_.” He sounds as disoriented as the rest of them. “Couple guards visible, but it looks like... it’s a _house_.”

Oliver and the others take off through the field; as soon as they reach Barry, Oliver nods. “Go.” Barry’s playing the most important role in this -- he’s searching for Felicity. The rest of the team engage the guards as Barry zips into the house. When he reappears nearly instantly, he’s holding -- “ _Felicity_!” 

Oliver is so distracted by the sight of her that the guard he’s fighting gets a solid punch in, and his baby sister has to step in to save his ass. 

He doesn’t care, because _she’s alive_. He sweeps his gaze over her, looking for injuries, bruises, _any_ sign of how she is. She’s barefoot, hair in a ponytail, wearing an uncharacteristically bland dress, and grinning at him from Barry’s arms. “You got my message,” she says. “I’m okay,” she adds before he can ask. She tilts her head, her forehead wrinkling slightly. “But Darhk’s not here.”

Oliver is beaming at her, his chest full to bursting with expansive _relief_. Laurel and Dig and Thea are fighting a ghosts all around him, and all he can do is drink in the sight of Felicity unharmed. He can’t make himself stop smiling. He wants desperately to hug her, to kiss her, to take her out of here himself, but _she’s_ what’s important. So he says, “Barry, _go_!”

They’re gone, and Oliver is back in the fight. Still grinning. Only a little distracted by the wave of relief he feels.

Barry radios that they’re safe at the lair, and then Felicity steals his comms to say, “ _Come home_ right now.” Oliver hangs back to cover the rest of the team’s retreat.

The next ten minutes pass in jagged fragments of time -- fighting his way back through the cornfields. 

Barry appearing in a streak of dark red, zipping around the edges of the fight to disarm the ghosts, knocking some out. It frees up the rest of the team to retreat.

Taking the stairs two at a time, sloshing through the seawater starting to trickle down the stairway, chest heaving by the time he reaches the top. 

Racing through the streets on his bike, desperate to see her.

Dropping the Ducati on its side in his haste, and then -- Felicity is in his arms, her face pressed into his neck, his nose buried in her hair as he crushes her warm, familiar form to him. 

“Felicity.”

She mumbles something incomprehensible into his skin, but refuses to move, clinging to him like a lemur, even as he runs his hands over her to check for injuries. “I’m okay,” she says over and over, and he didn’t know how much he needed to hear it until he sags against her in relief. “I promise, Oliver, I’m okay.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying hot tears until she tilts back, reaching up to wipe them from his cheeks. He gives her a tremulous smile. “I missed you,” he says, even though the words are wholly inadequate to describe the past 42 days of despair and rage and bone-deep fear.

She nods up at him. “I missed you, too,” she says, then makes a face. “I would _not_ make a good farmer. That was _boring_.” When he huffs a laugh, she drops her forehead to his chest for a moment, grumbling her embarrassment. Then she takes a breath and tips her chin up to meet his gaze. “Thank you for coming for me.” 

Oliver’s arms tighten around her reflexively. “I will always come after you.” Then he grins at her and asks in his regular voice for the benefit of the rest of the team standing awkwardly a couple yards away from their reunion, “When’d you learn Morse code?” 

She shrugs. “I read a book on the history of the telegraph once.” Oliver kisses her quickly, because _of course_ she did. When he pulls back, she’s smirking up at him. She tilts her head to see around his shoulder. “Does that mean I spelled everything right?”

“S.O.S. F. Under bay,” Dig recites. “House. But how did you--?”

“Found an old-school phone,” she explains. “Like _really_ old school -- a _rotary_ phone, which I kinda thought was a myth? But, no, that whole freaky throwback _underwater_ farm setup had a phone from like the 70s or whatever. So,” she continues, brightening as she raises her voice a little so the rest of them can hear, “with a rotary phone and the butter knife I was finally able to steal to use a screwdriver…” She trails off with a shrug. “I kinda just winged the rest of it.”

She’s _incredible_.

Oliver can’t wait a single second longer -- he’s kissing her, all of his relief and desperation and love poured into it. She responds, and he’s got her up against the rough cement wall before he knows what he’s doing, her legs wrapped around his waist, her body pressed tight against his.

“Hey, uh, guys?” Barry says from somewhere behind Oliver, sounding embarrassed.

Oliver groans into her mouth, but pulls back, breathing hard. Felicity’s grinning up at him, tightening her thighs just a bit against him, wordlessly asking him to stay where he is. The little minx. He glares over his shoulder at Barry. “What?”

Barry blinks, obviously not sure if he’s supposed to keep talking to them when they’re pinned together like that. “I just… wanted to make sure we’re all good here? Before I--” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the elevator door-- “go?”

Behind him, Dig chuckles. “Yeah, it’s best to just evacuate the lair when they get all caught up in each other,” he says. 

Felicity shifts, but Oliver refuses to let her down, tightening his fingers around her hip. It makes her take a little gasping breath, and he nearly loses his train of thought. “We appreciate the help,” he begins. “Really, Barry, we--”

“Thank you, Barry,” Felicity interrupts softly.

Barry gives her a broad smile. “Bye, Felicity.”

Dig has already herded Thea and Laurel to the elevator door, but he pauses long enough to ask, “I don’t suppose we can convince you guys to take this little reunion _home_ before--”

“Special dispensation,” Felicity answers cheerfully. “The no-sex-in-the-lair rule doesn’t apply to life-affirming reunion sex!” With that, Felicity reaches up and turns Oliver’s face back to her, pulling him into another heated kiss. He doesn’t much persuasion, losing track of the rest of them as he kisses her.

“You have to have a _rule_?” Barry wonders.

“Oh, come on,” Dig protests, but Oliver barely hears it, or the sound of the elevator doors sliding shut, or the sudden, heavenly silence in the lair. Because Felicity is in his arms again -- alive and unharmed and soft and warm and willing. His fingers tighten convulsively, and he presses his hips into hers.

“Oliver,” she gasps, her hands tugging at the leather jacket, pushing it from his shoulders. He pins her against the wall with his hips so he can get the jacket off, and she grinds against him, making his vision blur. 

“God, I missed you so fucking much,” he tells her, losing himself in another searing kiss. He shoves a hands between her back and the rough wall, and she arches in response, pressing her breasts against him. He works his other hand up her thigh, skimming the cotton skirt of her dress up, up, up--

The PA crackles to life with Thea’s audio announcement ( _Speedy calling!_ ), and they freeze, looking at each other in confusion. 

Oliver frowns. “What--?”

The familiar strains of _Sexual Healing_ blare into the lair. 

Felicity grins up at the speakers, and then she starts to laugh, shaking against him, which makes him groan in appreciation. And impatience.

“Felicity?” he whispers into the sensitive skin behind her ear.

She shivers, her laughter petering out. “Yeah?”

He lets the hand on her thigh slide down, fully beneath her skirt, and around to support her ass. And squeeze it a little bit. “How about we go home and shower and--”

“We'll shower _together_ ,” she interjects with a decisive nod.

Oliver grins. “Together,” he agrees, as if there were any doubt. “And then I will show you just _how much_ I love you--” He presses a kiss to her throat-- “and how much I _missed_ you--” He trails the tip of his tongue along her jawline-- “and how _sorry_ I am that--”

“Nope!” she interrupts, her fingers grabbing handfuls of his undershirt and tugging to get his attention. “No apologies.” She kisses the protests from his lips, then catches his gaze. “Yes to the rest of it.”

The soft, solemn way she says that soothes the rough knots of tension he's been feeling for weeks and weeks. And it makes him think about the ring hidden behind the baking supplies, about how much he wants her to have it, about how much he wants this _forever_. 

Tonight they’ll celebrate her safe return. Tonight he’ll worship her body, welcome her home. And tomorrow, he promises himself, he’ll propose tomorrow.

He leans in, kisses her chastely, softly. “Yes to the rest of it,” he echoes back to her, and from her indrawn breath, maybe she can hear the vow in his words.

She slides down his body, landing on her bare feet with a little shiver, and then she reaches for his hand. Felicity beams up at him, unbowed, unbroken, and says, “Take me home, Oliver.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, okay, so this chapter is actually more angsty than smutty or fluffy, so my 5+1 ratio is a liiiiiiiiittle off, but I tried. :) Hope you enjoyed the story!


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